Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Read online

  After Grandpa’s death, Grandma gamely learned to drive, taught by our steadfast neighbor, Noe, who turned prematurely gray as a result.

  After a quick shower, a cup of Earl Grey, and string cheese, I grab my bag and hurry downstairs to find Grandma backing the Olds out of the garage. She sits behind the wheel, head cocked, listening to the roar of the engine as she pumps the foot feed. She sees me approach and rolls the window down. “Mort always said it’s important to warm up the engine. Be sure you remember that, Allegra. You’re always in such a hurry.”

  As we exchange places, I assure her I’ll care for her baby as if it’s my own. I depress the clutch and shift into reverse. With a mere tap of the gas pedal, I shoot backwards out of the driveway and land in the grassy median that separates the two sides of our street, missing a giant maple tree by inches. The Olds growls ominously as I ease it off the curb and onto the street. I risk a glance at Grandma, who stands in the driveway with one hand clapped over her mouth in horror.

  Dodie emerges from the house. “Hey, Earnhardt Jr.! Hold on a sec.”

  I roll down the window as she walks to the car.

  “I called a guy I know who has a car painting business—Buddy. He’ll get it done for you over the weekend. I need your keys.”

  “Bless you!” I dig the keys out of my bag. “Did he say how much?”

  She takes the keys and gives me an enigmatic smile. “We’re going to dinner tonight.”

  “So my credit’s good?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Dodie says, backing away from the car.

  I shift into first and give her some gas. The tires screech, and I lurch down Maple Street like a robotic monster caught in the throes of a seizure. Noe’s extended family stands on his front porch, cheering and waving. I roar into the teachers’ parking lot a scant eight minutes later. Jimmy Felthouse stands across the street puffing one last cigarette before school starts.

  “Hey, Ms. Thome! Sweet car!” He put out his cigarette and saunters across the street.

  I pull out a five and give it to him. “Make sure nothing happens to it, and you’ll get another one after school.”

  “No problem,” he says. “You want me to stay out here all day?”

  “Nice try,” I say. “See you in class.”

  I’ve already made up my mind to talk to R.D. about Donny, even though I have no proof of any wrongdoing. During the lunch break, I lurk in the mail room until Sally scurries off to the copy machine, and then I pop through R.D.’s door. He stands in front of a mirror straightening his tie. Catching sight of me in the mirror, he turns. “Do we have an appointment, Miss Thome?”

  I confess my visit is spontaneous, and promise to be brief. His eyes are wary, but he nods and retreats behind his big desk.

  As my story pours out, I soon realize it’s not going well. R.D. begins to swell up. His face turns fiery red, a color that doesn’t go well with his burgundy jacket, pink shirt, and damask rose tie.

  I pause for breath, and he springs to his feet. “Be careful what you say, Miss Thome. Donny Thorndyke has dedicated his life to this school. Do you know how many championships he’s won?”

  I zip my lip, though I long to say, “So what?”

  “Furthermore,” he continues. “Donny’s been a guest in my home. My wife and I had him over for Sunday dinner just last weekend. Accusations like this could ruin the man’s career. Is that what you want?”

  I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. Why am I suddenly the guilty party? “Look, R.D., you’re the principal. Donny’s a letch. I don’t trust him around female students. As far as his problem with me, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of myself.”

  Before he can answer, I bolt, closing the door a little harder than necessary.

  The bell rings as I dash down the hall to my room. As my students straggle in, I announce, “Time for SSR. Get your books.”

  Twenty minutes of silent, sustained reading helps them decompress and settle into classroom mode. However, for a handful of rebels, SSR means sniveling, snarling, and refusing. I finally give in and toss a Teen People magazine on Crystal’s desk, which—thank you, God—shuts her up.

  “Got another one at a yard sale, Ms. Thome. Only cost me a quarter.” Arnulfo Vasquez, his moon face wreathed in smiles, holds his book up for me to see.

  I smile and give him thumbs up. During his incarceration for almost beating a rival gang member to death, Arnie fell in love with the Flowers in the Attic series. If any of his classmates think it’s odd, they keep it to themselves.

  Well over six feet tall and weighing 350 pounds, Arnulfo Vasquez is regarded with awe by the rest of my petty criminals. Against all odds, he and Nick have formed a bond and often eat lunch together. Since Arnie’s release, he’s been a model citizen, only losing his cool once.

  When a couple of my students started mouthing off to each, while I stood between them trying to cool the hostilities, Arnie stood up and slapped his desk. “Some of us are trying to learn. You two, shut the fuck up!” They did. Furthermore, nary a word was uttered about Arnie’s profanity, a no-no in my classroom.

  Arnie keeps the peace, which, in turn, allows me to teach.

  “Very good!” I enthuse after twenty semi-silent minutes have elapsed. “Paper and pencil out, please. This next assignment is a culmination of all you’ve learned about essay writing.”

  I ignore the chorus of groans. “I’ve compiled a list of fascinating topics to choose from. Or, if you have one of your own, feel free to use it.”

  Oops. How could I have forgotten a recent student essay on “How to Grow Your Own Pot”?

  “Run it by me first, of course.”

  Someone demands, “Why?”

  Crystal sniggers. “She doesn’t want you to write about no bad stuff, dummy, like drugs and erroneous zones.”

  “Any bad stuff, erogenous zones,” I correct, once again on autopilot.

  “What’s erogenous zones, Ms. Thome?” Wesley (window peeping) asks.

  “She’s talking about your pencil dick, you dickhead,” Crystal says.

  I quell the uproar that follows Crystal’s remark, for which she profusely apologizes when I threaten another visit to Sid’s Gas and Grub, and peace reigns until the 3:05 dismissal bell.

  I collapse in my chair and nibble at a slice of cold pizza, the lunch I didn’t have time to eat.

  Nick hovers over me, looking anxious. “Did you look at Sara’s stuff?”

  I tell him about the key, and he brightens momentarily, but it doesn’t last.

  “Damn!” He slams his fist against my desk. “We’re missing something. And it’s probably right under my nose.”

  Nick removes his glasses and polishes them with his shirt tail. The dark shadows under his eyes are in stark contrast to his pale, almost transparent skin. He rakes his fingers through his fair hair until it stands up in spikes. His eyes are huge, his forehead furrowed with worry lines. Woodstock. He looks so miserable I want to hug him but know better.

  I rummage through my bag, pull out the key, and hand it to him. He examines it carefully.

  “Gotta be a storage unit. Now all I have to do is find it.”

  “What’s your plan? Skulk around storage facilities and try to unlock number 42?”

  “You got a better one?”

  I shake my head.

  “Sunday,” he says. “Pick me up at 10:30.”

  Nick thinks we need to go to Sunday services at the Church of the Holy Light.

  Before he goes home, Nick retrieves the contents of my mailbox. I unfold a note written in Sally’s precise hand. “A Mr. Sloan called to remind you about your 6 p.m. meeting.”

  Oh, so now we have a meeting? Dream on, Sloan.

  Chapter 10

  It’s Friday night and time to buy Marcy dinner for covering my class. I try not to think about Sloan as I slip into my best jeans and a pink V-neck sweater and then quickly attempt to tame my curly hair. Spraying and spritzing fail miserably. I finally give up and gather the whole mes
s into a ponytail with a hair clip made of fake amethyst hearts and flowers.

  Knowing Grandma won’t want her car in Brewski’s lot, I dash off a quick note promising to park it across the street at the power substation, deserted after five o’clock. I leave the house well before six. My plan is to drive around until it’s time to meet Marcy, even if it means taking out a loan to buy gas for the Olds. After rumbling up and down Vista Valley Avenue four times, my curiosity gets the best of me. At 5:45, I ease the Olds down the alley behind the house, roll down the window, and cut the engine. At 5:55, I hear a car door slam and allow myself a tiny evil chuckle. Take that, Sloan!

  My chuckle turns into a gurgle of alarm when I hear Grandma Sybil’s voice. Although I can’t make out the words, the tone is unmistakable. Clearly, she’s delighted to see Sloan. But why is Grandma home? It’s Friday night. After a madcap day playing the penny slots at the Indian casino, she and Melba always stop for supper at KFC. Damn! Never trust an old lady.

  I groan as the scenario plays out in my head. By now, Grandma will have read my note and will soon be blabbing my whereabouts. I fire up the Olds and bump down the alley.

  “You told him you had plans,” I mutter aloud. “If he can’t take no for an answer, that’s his problem.”

  Then why am I sneaking down the alley like I’m casing the neighborhood? I drive aimlessly for a while before cruising through Brewski’s parking lot, where I spot Marcy’s car but no black Lincoln Navigator.

  Walking through the front door of Brewski’s is always a surreal experience. The main room features a sports bar with a large-screen television positioned at each end. To the left is a family dining area where the kiddies can order off the half-pint menu and score chicken nuggets, French fries, and a mug of root beer. Never too early to hook ’em on greasy grub and suds.

  A right turn leads to the area euphemistically known as Hookup Heaven, Vista Valley’s excuse for a singles’ bar. I spot Marcy alone at a booth. Definitely strange. Especially with three softball players sitting at a table nearby.

  I slide into the seat across from her. “Lost your touch?”

  Marcy grins. “Hardly. Blame it on your hunky, though menacing, new boyfriend.” She shakes a finger at me. “Naughty girl! Why didn’t you tell me you had a date?”

  “What? Sloan’s here?” I rise to a half crouch, and just then the man himself sits down and pins me to the wall. He has two glasses of white wine in one hand and a beer in the other.

  I scoot into the corner. “Grandma, huh?”

  He nods and distributes the drinks—wine for Marcy and me, beer for him. He shoots a look toward the softball players who’ve been following the action. They suddenly get busy watching the Mariners lose to the White Sox.

  “This isn’t a date,” I tell him.

  “Not what I heard,” he says, raising his beer mug toward Marcy. “She told me the umpire gets to call it.”

  “You told him about that?” I hiss at Marcy.

  “Why not?” she says. “It applies. If one of us gets a date, the person who’s stood up gets to decide if the other person can go or not.”

  “That’s not how it works,” I protest.

  “Here’s the set-up,” Marcy says. “You’re on third. The batter hits a pop fly to right field. You tag up and head for home. Since I’m without a date, that makes me the umpire. So I get to call it.”

  Marcy stands and crosses her hands in front of her, the umpire’s signal for “safe” and says, “Go. Enjoy!”

  “No way! You don’t know the rules.”

  “Well, smarty pants, the runner on second is advancing, so you have to run, too!” She gives Sloan an appraising glance and adds, “At your own risk, of course.”

  “Who says there’s a runner on second? That’s not your call!” My voice is shrill. I can’t believe how she’s twisting our time-honored tradition.

  I hear a little grunt of amusement from Sloan. Momentarily distracted, Marcy gives him a curious look. I know what’s coming. “What about you, big, scary man? You married?”

  Sloan holds up his left hand and displays a naked ring finger. “Not anymore.”

  His expression grows more forbidding. Marcy, however, is undeterred. “What happened?”

  “She found another guy.”

  Do I see a flash of emotion in his frosty blue eyes? Is it possible Sloan is a member of the human race?

  Marcy murmurs sympathetically before asking the big one. “Any kids?”

  “She didn’t want them.” He downs the rest of his beer and sets the bottle down carefully. “Interrogation over?”

  He flashes his shark grin.

  “Just one more,” Marcy says. “Sloan. Last name, I assume?”

  I roll my eyes but lean forward in anticipation. He nods.

  “Your first name is?” Marcy prompts.

  “You said one more question. That’s two.”

  He stands up and looks at me. “You ready to go? Got reservations for seven at the Lakeside.”

  Marcy gives a little hoot of appreciation. “The Lakeside, huh? Wow! See you Monday, Allegra.”

  “Sloan.” I use my teacher voice. “I left a message at your workplace telling you I was busy tonight. I owe Marcy dinner. She covered my class.”

  “For Pete’s sake, just go!” Marcy sounds exasperated.

  She makes the sign of the cross in the air. “I absolve you of all guilt. Get this guy out of here. He’s scaring my fans.”

  She looks over at the three guys with a big, encouraging smile. Taking care to avoid eye contact with Sloan, they grin back.

  Still annoyed, I inch slowly across the bench seat. “Just remember,” I caution Sloan, “this isn’t a date.”

  Marcy tosses her head and laughs. “Yeah, right. Sloan’s just looking for a buddy, somebody to talk baseball with.”

  “Oh, shut up, hot pants,” I tell her.

  Sloan clasps one hand around the back of my neck and guides me toward the exit.

  I try to act cool, but the warmth of his hand sends a rampaging horde of neurons zinging through my body straight into the aforementioned “erroneous” zones. My knees wobble, and it has nothing to do with my shoes, even though they are attractive slides with cute little pink bows and two-inch wedge heels.

  As we head toward the door, I ask myself, Why? Why is Sloan pursuing me? Why am I letting him march me through Brewski’s like a border collie bringing in an errant sheep? Even more horrifying, what will we talk about at dinner? Suddenly, I foresee the awkwardness of the evening laid out in graphic detail: me throwing out conversational gambits, the monosyllabic Sloan grunting non-answers.

  We charge through the door and start for the parking lot. I stop suddenly and “Why?” bursts from my lips. My abrupt halt causes Sloan to make full-body contact on my rear flank. I pull away and turn to face him.

  “Why what?” he says.

  “Why did you ask me out?”

  “Maybe I like you. And your underwear’s hot. Is that a crime?”

  I feel my face heat up. “Yeah, uh, well, that wasn’t my everyday underwear. I had a special night planned with my ex-boyfriend. Which you spoiled, by the way.”

  Sloan ignores my last comment. He takes my hand, and we head for a black Nissan parked away from the others. “My car’s over here.”

  No wonder I hadn’t sniffed out the fact he’d been lurking inside Brewski’s.

  I open my mouth to hurl a caustic comment—but then a speed bump looms up and snags the toe of my right shoe. With a little shriek, I lurch forward, bracing myself for a painful collision with the unforgiving pavement.

  Quick as a big cat, Sloan whirls and catches me mid-tumble. Somehow, I end up astride his upper thigh, my arms wrapped around his body, a position that once again sets my naughty parts atingle. Wow! Not only am I tingling, but Sloan’s body parts are answering.

  With a look of regret, Sloan sets me on my feet and reaches into a pocket for his vibrating cell phone. He flips it open and growls, “Yeah, S
loan here.”

  I retrieve my shoe and try to make sense of his end of the conversation, which consists mostly of “uh huhs and yeahs.”

  He snaps the phone shut and mutters an unintelligible oath before saying, “Gotta go. How about tomorrow night?”

  “Can’t make it.”

  “Oh, right,” he says. “Karaoke at Serenity Bay.”

  It’s then I decide to follow him—admittedly not my finest moment in the logic department, but curiosity trumps caution. Where does Sloan go when he’s in the field? Inquiring minds want to know.

  He drops me off at the edge of the substation parking lot. After killing the engine twice, I grind the Olds into first gear and give it some gas. The engine responds with a throaty growl, and I rocket out into the street.

  Feeling clever and spy-like, I hang back so I can see around the giant SUV separating me from Sloan’s car. I’m surprised when he passes the street that houses the central Washington DEA office. He and the SUV plow straight ahead. I run a red light and keep pace. After a quick left, right, right, we’re back on the main drag. When Sloan suddenly turns onto my street, I know I’m busted.

  He parks in front of my house, strides to my car, and yanks the driver’s door open. “Out, Sherlock. You’re going with me.”

  I smile sweetly. “Are we going to dinner after all?”

  He grabs the car keys out of my hand. “No.”

  He crosses to the front porch and hands the keys to Grandma, who’s standing at the front door.

  She beams and trills, “You kids have fun now.”

  “It’s not a date!” I yell as I slid into Sloan’s car.

  “For once, you’re right,” he says, jamming his foot to the accelerator.

  “You probably think I was trying to follow you, but actually I was just heading home.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t notice a ’68 Oldsmobile Rocket?”